The Inevitable Boy
by TheAltern8tiveUniverse
Summary: He is The Boy Who Lived, and yet, perhaps he is just a regular wizard boy too. Perhaps, despite the advisement of a handful of fellow wizards and witches, Harry Potter doesn't think about asking the Sorting Hat where to sort him. Perhaps the story takes on a different series of events, both internally and externally. Perhaps this is how it might've happened in an Alternate Universe
1. Prologue: The Thief

The Altern8tive Universe

The Inevitable Boy

A Harry Potter Alternative Book

By J. Eoin Whelan

Prologue

The Thief

The thief looked more like a ghoul than a man. His pale white skin and his dark, shoulder-length, greasy hair slicked back tightly, and his dark robes through which no light could penetrate, all gave him the impression of one who might have belonged to the Addam's family.

An hour before, Halloween celebrations had led to hundreds of children dressed in similar costumes as the thief milling about. The thief had watched them from the graveyard diagonally across the street, by the old Anglican Church. It was there that he'd watched the Dark Lord appear and force his way into the house before which the thief now stood. It had been poetic that he had chosen the cemetery to hide in; if the Dark Lord had discerned his presence…but no: with a singular purpose in mind, the Dark Lord hadn't detected him. The battle that had followed, five minutes later, sent all merry-makers scattering. But it had all been over in less than five minutes. The thief had watched as the initial attack erupted in the sitting room hallway. He'd expected several flashes of red and yellow light and a contested battle to ensue, but only green light flashed, and he'd seen, through the ground floor sitting room window, the man drop, lifeless.

"No," he'd whispered to the tombs around him, moving closer to the perimeter of the old cemetery.

The cloaked figure that had moved up the stairs hadn't struggled much when it reached the first floor. Another few crashes and a flash of green light, and a woman's shrieking scream followed. And then, the world had fallen anxiously silent.

"_No!_" The thief had shouted nearly. He'd cleared the cemetery in an athletic leap, crossed the street and pounded into the garden in a matter of seconds. _Not her, please! Not her!_

The front door was open, nearly blasted off its hinges, and as the thief entered the entrance hallway, he saw the crumpled figure of the man of the house, sprawled at the foot of the stairs. Inside the house, an eerie silence had settled save for the electric buzzing of flickering lights on the first floor landing, up the stairs. _Never understood why they wanted electric lights_, the thief thought sourly. And the body of the man looked, eerily, at peace. The thief hitched up his robes as he lifted his foot to step over the man, but his mind suddenly overwhelmed him with memories…memories he didn't want to revisit.

_Another time, another house, the animal shrieks of a wounded creature and the unmistakable glow of the full moon spilling through cracks in the walls. Another shriek of pain, human-like, and then a growl, wolf-like. Wand at the ready, the thief moved through the ground floor of the shack, breathing through baited breath. His foot lifted and settled on the first step, which creaked. All things went still, and the monster up the stairs began to sniff and move toward the stairs. And then, he was face-to-face with the werewolf, frozen in shock. Prepared to die as the wolf's mouth opened, and then, the stag appeared out of thin air and speared the wolf with his prongs. A shaggy black dog collided with the thief, knocking him over en route to the werewolf. The dog nipped at the feet and legs of the werewolf while the stag forced him backward, turning for a moment to set eyes on the thief. A look – pity? penance? self-righteousness? selflessness? – flashed across the stag's eyes…._

The thief shook the memory free, tucking it away into the caverns of his mind. He stepped over the man with a sneer and continued up the broken stairway.

"Lily?" He said in a trance-like state that had so clearly befuddled his mind that he had bent down and whispered the question to the corpse behind him. It did not respond, bringing the thief back to reality.

"No!" He whispered again, straightening up quickly. Blood pounded in his ears and his head began to swirl. He looked up the stairs and saw light spilling from the room at the top of it. Taking two steps at a time, the wizard cleared the stairs in a few strides and landed on the top floor with a thud. It was a mess. More debris littered the carpeted floor and the door to the nursery room lay in splinters just inside its room. A body lay crumpled and shivering out of sight beneath the door. The thief's head was shaking automatically, his mind buzzing with fear. He crossed the floor like a hunter stalking game, and automatically bent to lift the splintered door. But then he saw her.

Her auburn hair was spread out like a halo above her head. Her eyes were open and a look of fear was etched across her lifeless face. Her arms were sprawled out at her side in the formation of her fall. And behind her was the basinet in which her son was pulling himself to his feet. The thief crouched and felt the woman's pulse, confirming that she had none. His head seemed to split open then, and all control over his body was lost. In his grief, he knelt and lifted the limp body of his true love, a whimper escaping him.

"No!"

The baby wailed, breaking the thief from his moment of lament. And, from under the splintered door, another half-human sound shrieked. Laying the woman down again, the thief crossed back to the door and lifted it. What he saw beneath it was horrifying: if a person could age backwards and appear to be an old man in a baby's body, this _thing_ would be exactly what the thief would have imagined it to look like. The baby cried again and the thief looked up at him. He'd dropped his blanket at the foot of the basinet, and the thief, through powers that were not his own, crossed the room again, his head hurting from shock and pain, and picked the blanket up. His eyes drew level with the baby and he saw, to his amazement, Lily's eyes looking back at him. The soft pink skin of the young child bore a mark – one the thief was almost certain would be instantly famous once word got out – like the jagged root of a tree, or perhaps more in the form of a lightning bolt.

The man's features softened for a singular special moment, but a sudden popping noise outside the house broke it, and the man's features hardened. The baby boy was searching the man's face, a look on his own that suggested that he didn't know what to think of this ghostly creature. In honesty, the man didn't know what to make of this young child – one whom he could have imagined being his own once long ago. Footsteps approached, and the old familiar voice of the half-giant emitted a gasp and whimper, suggesting that the man's body had been discovered below. The thief stood, clenching his teeth, and crossed to the door again. He lifted it and grabbed a hold of the embryonic creature beneath it, wrapping it in the blanket the baby had dropped. With a snicker, he touched his wand to the wrapping and vanished it to a place he hoped it would perish on its own. Hatred flooded back into his being as the half-giant and the man who had been a large shaggy dog in his memories appeared on the first floor landing.

Their eyes met, and the half-giant frowned. A feeling of betrayal overwhelmed the thief, for a moment, and then it was gone. The other man, however, hardened and tightened the grip on his wand.

"Severus." He said.

"Padfoot," the thief replied.

"Severus," the half-giant growled. His eyes pleaded.

"Rubeus," The thief, called Severus, replied with an unnatural softness.

"Has it…?" Rubeus Hagrid whimpered. The other man's gaze dropped to the floor, a look of deep sadness transforming him from a warrior to a mourner. Severus nodded once.

"He's gone," he whispered.

"Gone?" the other man questioned. Severus couldn't respond. He cast his own mournful gaze downward and clenched his teeth again.

"But…" he whispered. "There is a boy."


	2. Chapter One: The Inevitable Girl

Chapter One

The Inevitable Girl

For several years, Petunia Evans had managed to forget that she had a sister at all. For several years, Petunia Evans had managed to forget the horrible display at her and Vernon Dursley's wedding reception, about the Potter man who'd come with his wife, despite great protest from the bride herself. And for several years, Petunia Evans – now Petunia Dursley – had managed to keep an orderly house without drawing any unwanted attention from her nosy neighbors.

But it was equally impossible for her to avoid the chagrin of the neighbors. After all, her chief aim in life was to get "one-up" on them all. She was a crane-like woman with far too much neck, which she used to spy on Mrs. Next Door and her impossible daughter ("She's one of those _autistic_ children! There's no question, it must be the parents' fault! I _am_ convinced!"), and she was thin and tall with spindly legs. Not much of a gardener, Petunia enjoyed overwatering her potted plants – despite their being potted in the ceramic vessels that had been presented to her and Vernon by the Potters at their wedding – because they all stood by the windows and allowed her the chance to peek outside and see what was going on. To _her_ chagrin, she'd noticed a tabby cat loitering on their property from the late afternoon on. She hated cats, mainly because Lily had loved them, and had meant to have a go at it with her house broom, but her hands were full with her eighteen month-old son, Dudley, and she simply couldn't be bothered.

Presently, she'd been fussing with the boy as he persisted in throwing his food across the room, smashing the bowl and splattering its contents against the wall. Petunia responded to this outrageous behavior with nervous giggles and cooing.

"Now Duddikins, what has Mummy said to you about throwing your food?"

"Won't!" The oversized baby – who resembled a seated fleshy snowman more than a baby – spat, spewing gelatinous mush all over her pearl necklace. Mrs. Dursley giggled again, wiping herself off and mentally deciding which new outfit she would wear on hers and Dudley's daily walk around Privet Drive. As she was straightening up and making more cooing noises toward her son, a flash of feathers caught the corner of her eye. Turning her head to look out into the back garden, she saw a tawny owl alight on her fence. It looked back at her without a care, and just to emphasize its existence, it hooted twice. Mrs. Dursley turned up her nose at the creature and decided to ignore it. Dudley, however, mimicked the hooting as he joyfully banged his splattered spoon on the table. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dursley would tell Mr. Dursley, later that night, how much better off they were than Mrs. Next Door, whose daughter was about to become the star of her daily report.

Mrs. Dursley took every precaution to shield her son from all weather. As the day was dull and cloudy, Mrs. Dursley wrestled Dudley's chubby feet into his Wellington boots and stuffed his chubby arms into a raincoat that was meant for a three year old. Next, she struggled to put a large brimmed hat on his enormous head, but it made him fussier than ever, and even after she'd managed to stuff him into his stroller, he made a good time of taking the hat off and throwing it out of his sight.

"Won't! Won't! Won't!" He chanted, each time the hat landed on the sidewalk and Mrs. Dursley had to stop and pick it up. She had chosen a light pink dress with a hideous floral pattern. She wore her large pearl necklace and just a bit too much powder on her face so that she looked like she was a schoolgirl still that was trying too hard. She carried her own umbrella – velvet green with a faux wood handle – rather than wearing a raincoat, and as she and Dudley left Number Four, her high heels clicked on the walkway. _This_ was not the sort of outfit that went with Wellies. To her annoyance, the tabby cat was still sitting at the corner, and it seemed to be watching her as she went her way. She stuck her nose in the air and turned her back on the animal, hoping it would be gone at last when she returned.

Next door, Mrs. Next Door was fumbling with her daughter, who was eager to get outside into the back garden bordering the Dursleys'. She struggled against her mother's loosening grip as her outstretched arms pointed toward the tawny owl sitting on the Dursley's fence. Mrs. Next Door's daughter's mouth moved, though no words came from it, as though she were a fish. As Petunia and Dudley passed, Mrs. Dursley lifted her sun glasses from her eyes and offered a teasing wave to Mrs. Next Door who, mortified, finally lost her grip on her daughter as she tried to wave back. The girl got loose, realized she had achieved freedom, and then made a straight shot for the tawny owl, a gleeful shout escaping her. Mrs. Next Door shot after her, almost catching up before anything else could happen but, as Mrs. Dursley watched with delight, at the last moment, the girl swerved and Mrs. Next Door collided fantastically with the fence, disturbing the owl and causing her to fall over. In a poof of feathers, the tawny bird hopped off the fence and swooped down in an effort to get away, but the girl's hand shot into the air and came back with a fistful of feathers first. Squawking, irritably, the owl rose and took off to the roof of the house across from the Dursley's, where a batty older woman was out watering her rose bushes. Mrs. Dursley shrugged and put her sun glasses back over her eyes, a self-righteous smile turning up the corner of her thin mouth.

The rain came midway through their stroll, and Mrs. Dursley was more than happy to turn around again and head home. Other than Mrs. Next Door and her daughter, there had been too little to spy on. Before she turned down the front garden walk, Petunia thought she saw the cat holding an umbrella of its own, but Mrs. Figg, the batty neighbor across the street, appeared to be in the early stages of crossing the street to chat, and Petunia was _not_ about to let that happen. She returned quickly to her own house – trodding on Dudley's rain hat for the thirtieth time, which caused her to stoop and pick it up – and disappeared behind the front door as fast as she could. It was exactly the sort of horror that Petunia Dursley had nightmares about, and though she didn't believe in those kinds of things, she had a sick feeling in her gut that something was amiss.

"Tea!" she trilled as she carried a tray with two steaming cups, her second-most favorite sugar bowl, her designated teaspoons and a plate filled with lemon drop biscuits and evening mints. Vernon looked off. Despite staring at the television – which had moved from a story about owls (Petunia was delighted that her own owl story had preceded it as she was _not_ going to be one-upped by the news) to a strange weather report about shooting stars ("During the day! Who would've thought?") – she could tell her husband was not paying attention. She'd always been an acute observer, even when she was a little girl, and her powers of observation and (dare she even think it?) mindreading remained sharp. But she couldn't read Vernon Dursley's mind as he stared blankly at the telly. She hoped he might offer his thoughts to her unsolicited, but that would be out of character for him, she knew. Nevertheless, with owls swooping around at daytime, shooting stars streaking the daytime sky as far as Dundee, and most importantly, Dudley's new word, it was a day of firsts, she reasoned.

Vernon Dursley cleared his throat as she set the tea tray down on the coffee table and pulled up a card table on which he could prepare his cup.

"Er – Petunia, dear – you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

And that was that. Petunia Dursley (formerly Petunia Evans) shot her husband a look that kills, attempted to reorganize it, and then said, acidly, "No. Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Vernon mumbled. "Owls…shooting stars…and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…" he trailed off as though he'd just realized what he was saying.

"_So_?" Petunia spat.

"Well, I just thought…maybe…it was something to do with…you know…_her_ crowd."

A stony silence fell between them, broken only by Petunia's sips and the television program, which had suddenly become engrossing to a degree that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dursley took their eyes off the screen. At an advertisement break, Vernon ventured, with a casual air, "Their son – he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I _suppose so_," Petunia replied, attempting to suppress images of the black-haired boy she'd inherited through pictures that Lily had sent on to her in their last letter – the same week Lily had gotten out of the hospital, incidentally. On the back of the photograph, Lily had written, _Your new nephew, Harry James Potter_; for a few days, in secret, Petunia had caressed the neat handwriting, temporarily allowing herself to miss the girl with whom she'd grown up.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?" Vernon broke through her reverie, though it clung to her firmly like Dudley's grip when he'd yank her hair in the midst of his temper tantrums.

"Harry." She said, struggling to conceal her wistfulness. "Nasty, common name, if you ask me." She added, her familiar sharpness returning.

"Oh, yes," her husband replied with feigned sudden remembrance. "Yes, I quite agree," he added, his familiar decided distaste returned. They finished their tea in silence, and Petunia indulged herself with three biscuits more than she would have normally taken – which, being zero, was exactly three lemon drop biscuits – and her usual two evening mints. All other conversation died, thereafter, and before the hour struck, both Vernon and Petunia had gone off to bed. While she was in the washroom, preparing for bed, Vernon snuck to the window and looked out at the quiet darkness that befell Privet Drive. The light was on in Mrs. Fig's sitting room window across the street, and a fainter light flickered in Mrs. Next Door's kitchen window. As he looked, he spotted the blinds fall back into place as though they had been briefly pulled back. Unlike his wife, Mr. Dursley didn't think twice about it because the tawny cat he'd spotted earlier in the day – the one he'd thought, madly, had been reading a map! – was still sitting at the corner. If he'd had a fanciful mind, Vernon Dursley might have thought the cat was _waiting_ for something. He heaved a sigh, hearing his wife close the medicine cabinet where she kept her make-up remover kit, and slipped into bed, rolling onto his side as Petunia emerged from the washroom and joined him. He closed his eyes in an effort to go to sleep, but even after the lights had been switched off, Vernon Dursley lay awake, wondering if the events of this day had _not_ been a coincidence after all.

Mrs. Next Door let the curtains fall back into place as she watched the Dursley's bedroom light go out. She sunk back into her kitchen chair, the candles at the center of the table casting an eerie play of light and shadow on her aging features. Ignoring her guests, a younger man and an older woman, Mrs. Next Door crossed out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, which was shrouded in darkness, and peered out the front window. The tabby cat was still there, sitting patiently at the corner. Mrs. Next Door sniffled, touched her head absently, and winced as the bump on it stung.

"Elvyra?" the woman tried in a soft voice. Mrs. Next Door – who's actual name was Elvyra Watkins (nee Whelan) – turned around and faced the older woman. She raised her eyebrows as if to say 'Speak!' and the older woman, who was standing in the doorway now after having followed Elvyra to the edge of the kitchen, shivered and crossed her arms. "You were telling us about the child."

Mrs. Watkins nodded slowly. Her voice was grieved when she spoke. "Yes, Arabella," she said, taking a seat in the gloom. The woman called Arabella took a seat opposite her, drawing the younger man to the doorway. Mrs. Watkins folded her hands in her lap and stared at them as she threaded and unthreaded them, rhythmically. "I'm afraid, Bella, she's become too much for me. But I can't bear to bring her back to _that place_." Mrs. Watkins brushed a frustrated tear from her eye. The man came and knelt by her side, taking her hand and gently brushing it with his thumb. Mrs. Watkins looked up at him. "Belyn – " she pleaded, softly. The man, Belyn, tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but it died midway through execution.

"Elvyra," he began, determinedly. "She won't go back to the home for autistic children. She doesn't have a reason to be there, and we all know that."

"We've done her wrong to have kept her under that spell for as long as we have," Mrs. Watkins agreed, her voice still tender but her mind plagued with guilt. "Really, Aunt Bella, I envy you for being the way you are." Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, but she never met the older woman's eyes. "I mean, to not be a witch – to have no magic…" she dropped off as Arabella sighed heavily.

"Stop," Arabella growled.

"I've never felt more like a _wicked witch_ than these last few years with Effora." Mrs. Watkins continued, still not meeting Arabella's hawk-like gaze.

"Stop." Arabella growled again, more forcefully.

"But, you know, now…she's getting older and stronger, and it's just beyond my powers," Elvyra prattled on. In a sudden wave of emotion, Arabella stood and smacked the younger woman. Belyn winced as Elvyra put her hand to her cheek, which had reddened.

"Stop!" Arabella spat. "Feeling sorry for yourself will _not_ do!" She plopped into her seat and sighed again. "You _are_ powerful enough for Effora. But," she sighed again and shrugged her shoulders as the thought she didn't want to think settled in her mind. "But, I'm afraid you are _correct_; she _does_ needs to be somewhere else. Bel is right that she doesn't belong in that home, and we _can't_ take her back there, _anyway_." She shifted uncomfortably now, her gaze focused decidedly on the palms of her hands. "Mr. Figg wouldn't have it, and neither will I. No, Effora is going to live with Garald."

Garald Figg was the one person that neither Belyn nor Elvyra wanted to send Effora to live with; he had his good moments, but mostly he was best understood as the Wild One in the Whelan family. He'd not fallen far from the Figg tree, though: Mr. Figg had trained his son to be _just_ like him. And at the same time, Garald Figg had shown promise that he would break the mould.

"I'll take her," Belyn said, breaking the thoughtful silence that had settled among them. Mrs. Watkins stared at him, tears beginning to form in her eyes. Arabella stared at him as well, but her look was cloudier. She seemed to be chewing on a large thought, and Bel wished she'd just spit it out. But that wasn't like Aunt Bella. She did it her way. The silence that Bel had meant to lift reformed around them, and this time it seemed different, weightier, like this was a moment whose importance could not be missed. At last, Mrs. Watkins sniffed.

"He's not really gone, is he?" she whispered. As to which "he" she was referring to, neither Belyn nor Mrs. Figg could tell, but each made assumptions about whom she was speaking.

"You'll be okay," Bel said, softly, assuming that his sister was referring to the recent demise of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. He'd been specifically targeting halfblood families for years, and often Belyn had feared that his niece would be fixed in Lord Voldemort's crosshairs. He told himself that was the reason he'd helped hide her away in Little Whinging in the first place, although he knew it wasn't _exactly_ the truth.

"If Dumbledore says he's alive, then I prefer to believe him," Aunt Bella replied with a comfortable nod. It was a gesture that stunned both Elvyra and her brother, and each turned their heads sideways and shot quizzical looks at her. In response, their aunt tightened her upper lip and raised her own head slightly, looking down at her nephew and niece. "Well…Dumbledore is the only wizard the Dark Lord feared. _I_ believe him when he says the Potter boy is alive, even though I couldn't tell you _how_ anyone…much less a baby…could survive the Killing Curse." The misunderstanding dawned on Belyn and Elvyra's faces then, and Elvyra chuckled nervously, but received so harsh a look from her aunt that she stifled it just as quickly as it had come.

"I only meant…" Mrs. Watkins began, but Mrs. Figg cut her off.

"It's high time we were going, Belyn." She got up quickly and turned on her heels. Belyn rose to follow her but hung back a moment, casting a questioning look at his sister.

"So, do you think it's true? Harry Potter lives?" He whispered. Elvyra shrugged and clenched her jaw a moment.

"If it is true," she began.

"Elvy! Belyn!" Mrs. Figg snapped in a high-pitched voice from across the cottage. Bel regretted never knowing what his sister intended to say, for he had no way of knowing that this moment was the moment in which everything changed. He had no way of knowing that the next time he and Elvyra would see each other, it would be across battle lines. Elvyra stood and followed Aunt Bella into the sitting room, passing Bel in the doorway and never looking back.

The night was cool and clear when Effora – wiping sleep from her eyes and looking around, dazed – and Belyn stepped out of the cottage on Privet Drive. Aunt Bella followed close behind them, breathing down Effora's neck, but that didn't stop the girl from turning around to glance once more at the woman who had taken care of her for the last five years – nearly half her life. "Mom?" She called in a shaky, vulnerable voice. Aunt Bella clucked her tongue and turned Effora around to face forward, keeping two hands on the girl's shoulders.

"Come along, child," she said in a confused kindly and stern voice. "There's no time for gentle goodbyes." Aunt Bella hurried them forward toward the street, and try as she might, Effora couldn't see around her. She was becoming more alert now as the realization was dawning on her: something was about to happen to which she had not given her consent. She began to fuss.

"No. I don't want to go," she wiggled and Aunt Bella's grip tightened, her pace quickening. "You're hurting me!" Effora protested, but Aunt Bella hushed her sharply. "Stop!" She stomped her foot in frustration, but it was too late for her. Arabella shot Belyn a knowing look, and Effora saw her uncle take out what looked like a polished tree branch. Before she could comprehend what was happening, he tapped the crown of her head. A sweet, cool sensation caused her body to tense in confusion as it spilled over her crown and fell, like water, down her body. In a moment, her mind became cloudy and her senses dulled. She smiled because she felt good and at peace. A voice came into her head then, sweet and soothing, as though whispering a lullaby to her.

_Don't fret, child. Don't even wiggle. You are loved. You are safe. You are at home. And nothing is going to harm you! Think only of the good things you have. Remember that someone else is out there looking for love and safety and security from harm, and it is not you because you are loved, you are safe, you are at home, and nothing…is…going…to…harm…you…._

Effora's body went limp as the Pacifying Charm trickled through and around her. Belyn blushed as he stuffed his wand into his trousers and out of sight. He didn't like enchanting his niece, but for this moment, he knew, there was a good reason for it: he needed to keep her safe because she was in danger, and only he and Aunt Bella knew how to keep her safe. He linked arms with her on the other side of the street. "Go," Aunt Bella commanded, crossing her arms and standing back. Concentrating on his landing site, Belyn linked arms with Effora and spun around. He disappeared with her in tow with the slightest popping sound.

For nearly a minute, Arabella Figg concentrated on the spot where her nephew and her great niece had been. Then, seemingly regaining her senses, she inhaled deeply, let it out, and nodded to herself. _Good luck_, she thought, sending her love and hopes out to them, wherever they were.

Ten minutes after Mrs. Figg and Mrs. Watkins had retreated back behind their doors, a tall white bearded man in light blue robes and half-moon spectacles appeared at the corner of Privet Drive, removed an object that looked quite a bit like a cigarette lighter and clicked it. And with each click, the lights of Privet Drive went out, as if by magic.


End file.
